


Cling

by misanthropyray



Series: A Tentative Affair [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Bodily Fluids, M/M, Other, Sounding, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-24
Updated: 2012-07-24
Packaged: 2017-11-10 15:55:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/misanthropyray/pseuds/misanthropyray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Together, they can handle anything life throws at them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cling

**Author's Note:**

  * For [shipwreck](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shipwreck/gifts).



“I’m sorry, Sherlock. We’ve run every test available at the hospital and nothing. All the labs I’ve sent samples to are stumped. I don’t think there are any other options.”

John looks exasperated, sitting in his armchair, his hair still damp from the rain. He wrings his hands, dragging a dry palm over his knuckles, waiting for his response. Sherlock sits in the middle of the sofa, surrounded but a writhing mass of this own flesh. While some lie dormant and obedient by his side, others are drawn to the aching worry in John’s voice, unfurling and sliding across the rug towards him. The scratch of the rug pile against his skin is bright and sharp and certainly not unpleasant.

“I don’t know. It seems so...”

Sherlock’s argument drifts away from him as the first pioneering tentacle reaches John’s ankle, curling around him and pressing into his hot skin. He always forgets. When he isn’t in direct contact, he forgets just how delicious John’s skin is. Perfect, really. Sherlock’s eyes flutter closed as he savours the sensation, every hair of John’s calf a brilliant spark of excitement that reminds him of the intense power of their connection. He’s lost in the moment until it’s abruptly gone, jarring and sudden, as John yanks his ankle from Sherlock’s grasp. His eyes snap open, all too aware that he’s back in the room; cold and boring and disconnected.

“Please. I need you to listen, you can’t get distracted now. I hoped we’d be able to find a cure but it’s looking like that’s not going to happen. Not anytime soon anyway. We’re looking at years, at best. It could be decades and there’s still no guarantee. We don’t want to run the risk of them maturing any further. I really think amputation is your best option.”

John’s pacing now, short quick strides back and forth across the living room, eyes cast down, avoiding Sherlock’s. His lip catch between teeth that worry it in a steady rhythm.

“John, come here.”

He steps closer, but stands just out of reach, his expression torn. Poor John. Poor, conscientious, concerned John. Sherlock is gripped by the desire to go to him, wrap himself around John, feel John’s warmth pressed against the cool skin of his new body that Sherlock’s found himself in control of. In the three months that have passed, it has been an entirely new adventure getting to know himself again; new capabilities, new strengths and weaknesses. And he is strong; he can lift John clear off the ground as though he’s no heavier than a mug of coffee, can shred his clothes like they’re no sturdier than tissue paper.

Sherlock can picture every part of him with perfect accuracy. There isn’t a centimetre of John’s skin that he hasn’t seen since his change; seen, tasted, drenched, claimed. John helps him relieve the ache inside himself, that returns throbbing and painful throughout his torso like clockwork. It isn’t time yet, but soon; just over two hours before he can take John again. No, it isn’t time yet, but he can still feel it, the gentle push of pressure building, waiting. It begins as soon as they finish, while John still lies shivering and spent and glistening wet beside him, he can already feel it beginning again. It’s become reassuring. _It’s over,_ it says, _but wait. There’s always more._

They’d only lived together for a month when it happened, when he was attacked, and that was three months ago. This is their reality now, and it’s far better established than anything they had before. When Sherlock thinks of the time before his attack, all he sees is loneliness.

John skirts around Sherlock’s reach, watching him, waiting.

He’s not certain that, if he got them removed, things would stay the same between them. When they’re together, John enjoys himself certainly (admittedly it would be impossible for him not to under the circumstances) but he always sticks to the clock. He’ll touch him in between but his touch is friendly, doctorly; a supportive arm to help him out of bed, gentle hands that cleanse him of the thick secretions that cover them both after John has given him his body. If they were no longer watching the clock, waiting for 5pm, 1am, 9am each day, would they be together at all? And even if they were, it would be back to skin and sweat, hands and mouths, and penises. Gone would be the overwhelming sensation the tentacles brought him at the slightest touch. Gone would be the heady power of having John bound and at his mercy, ready and willing to fulfil his needs. Gone would be the endless rise and fall of his days, being filled and then released, shaping his time in this new world of sensation and sex that he’d been thrust into.

“They aren’t just tumours that you can slice off and be done with it, you know. They’re a part of me now, as much as my arms or legs.”

The image of a blade cutting into him flashes into his mind, sharp and brutal. Sherlock draws up his legs to his chest, his tentacles wrapping around his calves to cocoon him. It’s only when a mug of coffee is laid down on the coffee table in front of him that he realises John has moved.

“Scoot up a bit,” John says, holding his own mug. Sherlock slides himself along the sofa to make room beside him. John sits, not close enough to touch, but Sherlock can at least feel his warmth radiating towards him like gift. “You can’t just stay like this, Sherlock. You can’t live the rest of your life hidden away from the world.” John’s voice is tentative and soft, an appeal. “You’re too good for that.” 

Maybe. Maybe John has come to the right conclusion using the information at his disposal, but there’s so much more than he is capable of seeing. In truth, he has no idea. If he knew, if he could truly feel what it was like for Sherlock, his opinion would certainly be different. Two of the tentacles unfurl themselves from around Sherlock's knees and seek out the warmth of John, laying across his waist and squeezing him gently, pulling him closer. John laughs and, for a moment, all the worry lifts from his face. He looks down at the soft flesh hugging him, stroking a hand across them fondly and it feels like home.

“It’s not time yet,” John says to his lap.

“I know.”

Sherlock leans into him, touching his lips to John’s. They’ve kissed before, probably hundreds of times by now, but it’s always been in the moment, caught up in a dizzying haze of pheromones and sensation. In many ways, this is their first kiss while quiet, sober, and in control. It only lasts a moment, in reality it’s just the briefest touch of the lips, perfectly chaste, but its meaning is almost deafening in the quiet living room. 

“I can’t lose you, John.” The words hang in the air, fragile and delicate and far too close to shattering.

“Hey, we’ve made it this far, haven’t we?”

And then there’s a hand curling around his jaw and drawing him back in, lips against his, a slow press and release. Together they sit and explore each other’s mouths, tongues languid as they learn one another for the first time. Noses sweep past each other, changing angle and beginning afresh. It’s delicious and new and entirely different than the heated battles of teeth and tongue they’ve had before now. Sherlock had assumed that he knew John, knew his body but he had been wrong.

It’s the blissful shiver that he feels first, before realising that one of his tentacles has pushed its way beneath John’s shirt to begin exploring his chest. It takes Sherlock a moment to gather himself, eyes closed and forehead against John’s as he gets his breathing under control. Every time, he forgets and remembers.

“We can’t do this here,” John says, his voice satisfyingly uneven. “Your room.”

When they land on the bed, their kisses become more heated, more familiar. Sherlock takes his time, exploring John’s newly bared chest now the ache inside him isn’t urging him immediately into release. His body is a rich tapestry of pleasure for the tentacles that wind and curl around his torso, fine hairs tickling them, soft skin that warms them and the hard mound of scar tissue that pushes back as they move across his shoulder.

Sherlock can feel them fighting to take over, pulling to gain free reign over his body and mind. In the beginning, the battle would simple swallow him whole, but now he has some strength of his own; maybe not enough to win outright, but certainly to establish a compromise. They have grown together, he understands them now. They can move without his instruction but he can seize control too. They’re in this together.

Sherlock’s hands slide open the button on John’s trousers, lifting his hips from the bed with ease to release them along with his briefs. Long limbs explore John’s body as Sherlock removes his own trousers, returning to relish the delicious sensation of uninterrupted contact with John, hard and lean beneath him. Their bodies slide across one another and it’s familiar territory that stretches out in front of him. John is handsome and it’s not just Sherlock that feels the ache to take him; the creature that lives inside him, that has become so much a part of him, thrashes wildly to be unleashed and this time, he allows it.

It’s John who breaks their kiss, when he feels the squeezing flesh that wraps around his wrists. When he looks at Sherlock, his expression is... unclear. There’s some heat to his gaze, but there’s something else, something Sherlock doesn’t quite understand.

“Tell me you want this.”

John doesn’t reply immediately, but watches Sherlock silently as he considers, slowly rotating his wrists in their bindings, “I want _you._ ”

“This _is_ me. Please.”

And in that moment he knows for certain that even if he has them removed, it would still be with him. They would cut him open and find them so entirely entwined that separation would be impossible. Whatever it is that has taken hold, it would still live inside him, sharing his body and sharing John’s.

As the moment lingers between them, one of the tentacles appears from over John’s shoulder, stroking across his jawline and hovering near his face. From the end of it, a clear droplet of liquid emerges and falls, followed by another, dripping onto John’s thigh; an offer.

Silence.

John’s brow creases momentarily as he considers the invitation to thoughtless abandon. Sherlock still remembers the first time, in the greenhouse. If he concentrates, he can feel dirt on his back, hot air clinging to his skin, and the sweet honey taste of the liquid oozing down his throat, electrifying and awakening his senses. He felt more alive than he’d ever experienced before; the surface of his skin dancing and screaming out for sensation. Afterwards, the world had seemed dull and distant, his skin numb. He offers John an escape.

When John accepts, he doesn’t look up at Sherlock; simply wrapping his lips around the curved tip before him and sucking on it with a determined force. Sherlock can feel the deep pull inside of him as the slow dripping increases, pumping into John’s mouth in a steady stream. It transforms his hesitant expression into one of unrestrained delight, his eyelids almost closed with lust and his cheeks hollowed. He groans, deep and throaty, and the sound calls to Sherlock. He wants to share this with John, wants him to experience just a small part of the joy he feels when John surrenders his body to him and this is the only way he knows how.

His wrists drop to his sides as he gives himself over and suddenly the feel of John’s mouth undulating around him isn’t enough. Sherlock lifts him with ease, his body pliant against the coiling grip of the tentacles that position him on his knees, his back pressed against Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock runs his fingers through John’s hair, gazing in wonder at the soft, sandy blond strands as he combs through them. He encourages John’s head to rest back against him, allowing an unobstructed view at the writhing tangle of flesh that explores John’s torso, leaving glistening trails of wetness on his tanned skin; John’s skin, the perfect counterpoint to the sensitive flesh that roams across it.

Sherlock draws out the wait, teasing them both into a dizzying haze of lust and it’s only when John’s hips begin to mindlessly rut into nothing that Sherlock’s control snaps and he becomes consumed with need. His will slips and he allows the creature to consume him, letting go completely. He doesn’t need thought here, just John and skin and sweat and friction, and it’s blissful.

Two tentacles push between their bodies, encircling John and trapping his hands by his sides. Another two coil around his legs, easing them apart, presenting him for Sherlock to take. The tentacle that was pushed into John’s mouth pulls free and behind it comes an unexpected string of profanity.

“Oh fuck, Sherlock I need you to fuck me. Please, I need more. Touch me, oh god, I want you inside me, please,” John’s hips desperately push against his bonds. His words fill the room, sometimes degrading into breathless moans and cries before resuming again. John’s words affect Sherlock, tapping at some dark recess inside him; John should be happy, he can make him happy. Together, they can be happy.

An oozing tentacle reaches across John’s straining body and finally, finally, wraps around the base of his cock, squeezes and rolling slowly up his length. The move elicits a broken cry and a violent shudder that wracks through him. Sherlock presses a messy line of kisses along his shoulder, licking and biting at the sweat-sheened skin before him. Pulling John’s hair in an uncoordinated fist, he moves his head to allow better access, attacking his mouth with a hungry determination. The taste of honey still lingers on his tongue, messy trails surrounding his mouth where the fluid has built up and dribbled over his chin to flow down his neck. John moves against him, moaning into Sherlock’s mouth and thrusting into the coiled chamber that encases his penis. As his muscles begin to tense and shudder, he releases his grip on John’s cock. _Not yet, John. I have so much more for you._

“Please, Sherlock. Please, I need you to fuck me. Sweet fucking Jesus, please...”

John’s words are muted by another tentacle pushing into his mouth and he sucks on it greedily, bubbles of clear fluid collecting at the corners of his mouth. His tongue wriggles into the dilated tip, hungry and seeking. Sherlock strokes his hair with shaking fingers as he feeds; running light fingernails across his scalp as he feels himself coming apart at the seams.

A leaking tentacle finds its way to John’s arse, parting his buttocks and sliding between them with ease, leaving slick trails in its wake. It nuzzles the crease for a few moments, dragging up and down the parted space before circling in on John’s tight hole with determined insistence. John’s body opens for him, utterly overwhelming Sherlock with the sensation of tight heat surrounding him. Sherlock buries his face into John’s neck, so thoroughly lost that the room around him becomes too much to focus on. There’s nothing, but their bodies and this moment and now.

He feels a deep tug in his chest as the thick tentacle fucking John’s arsehole begins to pump its fluid into deep inside his body. The sparking sensation of release spreads across every part of Sherlock’s body, wringing a sobbing cry from him that he muffles against the warm skin of John’s throat.

When the flow begins to ease, the tentacle slips out of John’s buttocks, freeing a steady stream of fluid that drips down his thighs and splashes onto the sheeting beneath them. Soon, another takes its place, pushing into the relaxed hole with ease and thrusting fast into the lubricated space as John arches and groans at the sensation.

“You’re mine, John. I want you. Every part of you,” Sherlock’s voice doesn’t sound like his own, croaky and broken over the wet sounds of skin against skin.

A fat tentacle slides across John’s chest; it’s bigger that the others, looking bloated at the tip, and making its way toward John’s abandoned penis. As it gets nearer, the tip of the tentacle dilates wide to reveal a cluster of thin tentacles, writhing and energetic. The tendrils wrap around his cock in a wriggling fist of motion, twisting and struggling against one another to make contact with its hard heat.

Sherlock stares down at it with dumb fascination, barely comprehending what his eyes are seeing. This is new. It feels... intense and dizzying and different and he can’t get his brain to concentrate on what this might mean for him, for them. All he knows is that he wants more of it, more of John.

When the fourth tentacle slips spent from John, Sherlock pushes his own cock into the slicked entrance that quivers loose and relaxed around him.

“John, can you squeeze around me?”

John answers with a moan, his overworked body shuddering against Sherlock’s chest as he gathers his last scraps of strength. After a moment, there is it, the squeezing friction of John tightening around him. The pressure forces out a glut of the fluid that has flooded his insides and it pours hot down Sherlock’s legs as he continues thrusting into the slippery passage.

As Sherlock's energy begins to falter, the tentacles assist him, angling John’s hips for him and thrusting his body back and forth onto Sherlock’s cock. As John’s body gives in to the shuddering waves of orgasm that shake his limbs, the thin tendrils gather excitably at the tip of his cock and begin to dip into the opening of his penis, one by one, slowly pushing deeper and deeper inside. One, two, three of them, twisting into his hole and stretching out the delicate passage as they delve inside him.

Sherlock feels overwhelmed by the sensation of being inside John; in his mouth, his arse, his cock. They’re together, like one. John is his and he is fucking his entire body. The sensation of being inside John, feeling him everywhere from the inside, the loose slick of his arse and the impossibly tight squeeze of his urethra pushes Sherlock into a deafening orgasm that mercilessly rips through his body. As he comes, the tentacle in John’s mouth pushes down further into his throat, pumping the last of its fluid into his stomach in slowing waves.

The brutal intrusion pushes John to his limit. The invading tentacles that still slide deep inside him flick against the hard knot of his prostate as his come drips and bubbles around them.

As the tentacles unwind and withdraw, Sherlock and John collapse together on the sodden bed, heavy limbs finding one another and entwining. They lay together, listening to the sound of their own laboured breathing and the slow drip messing the carpet.

John is the first to break the quiet, “So what the bloody hell was that then?” his voice breathy with a twinge of amusement.

“Honestly, I have no idea. I’m sorry. It was as much a surprise to me as it was you.”

“Trust me, I think I was the more surprised one.”

“That’s possibly a fair observation,” says Sherlock which a chuckle. “Will you tell me what it felt like?”

John quiets for a moment, considering his answer. “It was intense. I felt completely full, like I was being stretched open. It was like urinating and coming at the same time, it was incredible. Oh and at the end, I thought that if I came with them in there, my cock might explode. Aside from the momentary crippling fear though, it was pretty fucking great. ”

They lie in a comfortable silence, for a few moments before John begins to fidget, “We should really get cleaned up.”

“In a minute. Just lie with me for a moment. Please.”

* * *

It’s different now. They still stick to the schedule, but in between they are tactile with one another; there are kisses, and it feels natural and normal and right. John is his, whether he decides to have the surgery or not. He’ll help and support him regardless, and the knowledge of that fills Sherlock with a warmth that’s entirely foreign to him.

When John returns home from work, he walks over to the couch where Sherlock sits and slides a warm hand behind his neck, guiding he mouth upwards for a kiss.

“Fancy a cuppa?” he says with a smile that hints of something beneath, something darker.

“Coffee, please.”

John walks in to the kitchen, rummaging through packets and jars in the tea cupboard, “We’ve only got instant. That alright?”

“It’ll do.”

John reaches up to the top shelf, his shirt rising up and revealing the fair skin of his belly which deepens to an angry bruise on the side. Sherlock’s stomach lurches at the realisation. He’s in the kitchen in an instant, pulling up the loose tails of John’s shirt to get a better look at the violent bruising along his side. There are ten of them, five along each side. Bruises the size of a thumbprint, all shaded the same vicious stain of purple. John doesn’t try and stop him.

“What? How did this happen? When did this happen? Today? Must have been, I would have noticed otherwise. Why didn’t you come home from the practice? Even with a busy schedule, a doctor writhing in pain isn’t good for business. Painkillers then? And strong ones at that. You should sit. Lie. Relax. Why didn’t you tell me?”

As his brain twists and lurches with the implications of this, John look at him with a crooked smile.

“It’s okay, Sherlock. I’ll be fine, stop fussing.”

“But I thought the vaccine....” It’s his fault. He’s infected John, put him at risk in return for his care and attention, “I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah. They must have reached maturity or something. I really have no idea,” he says, shaking his head, “I suppose we know what to expect this time though. And I know my options at least.”

John is his and soon he’ll know. It’s all his fault that he’s forced John into this situation but at least he’ll know how it feels. Even if he decides on the surgery, John will know what he’s been giving Sherlock all this time. Sherlock will offer himself to John and he can experience just what it’s like to be so thoroughly inside another person, to have everyone one of your senses overwhelmed and consumed by him. It’s a bittersweet gift but it’s all he has to give.

“Yes, I suppose we do.”

**Author's Note:**

> Beta-ed by the very pretty thisprettywren. 
> 
> I had no intention of expanding on this series but then this happened. Oops.


End file.
